


Like Smoke Through His Fingers

by katajainen



Series: Nwalin Week 2018 [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blue Mountains | Ered Luin, Implicit propositioning, M/M, No beta - provided as is, Nwalin Week, Nwalin Week 2018, Pipeweed, Pre-Quest of Erebor, Prompt Fill, Smoking, Trope: guardsman and thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: Trying to catch the thief, Dwalin thought, was like trying to grasp a fistful of smoke.





	Like Smoke Through His Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nwalin Week 2018, day 1, prompt: **Smoke** ~~or **Stone**~~.
> 
> I swear this was supposed to be a drabble.

Trying to catch the thief, Dwalin thought, was like trying to grasp a fistful of smoke.

The dwarves of Ered Luin had little in the way of precious things, and what they had, they guarded jealously. Those who would sink to stealing knew this, and would seek out prizes of lesser value rather than try and fail to snatch a true treasure.

With one exception.

For some years now the Watch had suspected all the most audacious thefts were the work of one culprit. Privately, Dwalin thought it had taken them too long to make the connection. Then again, what kind of a person only took things that were worth at least a year’s wages for the common worker? Things you could never hope to sell except in the rich cities of Men where the word would never travel back.

The answer was: the sort of person that would walk through locked doors like they were made of smoke and scale down walls purpose-built unscalable. The thief had proven so evasive Dwalin had given up hope of ever putting a face to their shadowy opponent. Until now.

Just days ago, the Watch had come upon the thief in the act, yet had not managed to catch them, for the thief had led them a merry chase into the unstable maze that was the Old Belegost, and lost them there. But Dwalin had had a good look at their quarry: they had auburn hair set in a fanciful three-peaked style, and a body like fine-honed steel, springy and swift with no weight to spare. Dwalin had to admit to himself he had liked what he saw, but who wouldn’t have? And the thief had laughed as they sprinted down a tunnel the Watch’s stone-dowsers would not dare to set a foot into, laughed with such a sharp undiluted glee that the sound had wedged itself to Dwalin’s memory and would not leave him be, wearing at him much like a stone in the boot, only pricklier.

None of this, however, had anything to do with the scoundrel they had just hauled in the holding cells. A petty thief of no consequence, sold by another of the same ilk in an effort to ingratiate himself to the Watch. They saw his kind by the dozen in these lean days of misfortune, criminals of opportunity whose clever fingers would earn them a day’s bread but never more. Eventually, they would be caught and face the wages of their sins: lashes for the first offense, a thief’s brand and exile for the repeat. The dwarves of Ered Luin had no use to make of parasites.

This one was young, and a first-timer, and would face his double handful of lashes in the morning. Yet the curious thing was how he had fought the guards like he had a meeting with the branding iron instead. The ruckus had only made him more suspect and more thoroughly searched, down to confiscating his personal effects – after all, guards were not above being petty after a few well-placed kicks. Dwalin rubbed at the side of his hand where a bite-mark was still showing, and watched the lad pacing the length and breadth of his cell, aimless and ceaseless.

He looked barely of age, and was scrawny in the way of many youth these days, left small by a childhood of lean bread and long miles on the road, and the tufts of beard that had escaped from their braids made his face look even more narrow, his cheekbones even more angular. Yet he had proven stronger than his slight frame made believe, but that was the only remarkable thing about him; in his worn clothes and leather vest, tight-braided dark hair dull with stone-dust, he could have stood in any day-labourers’ line come the dawn, and no-one would have looked at him twice.

The thief stopped pacing and sat down cross-legged on the bench bolted to the wall, returning Dwalin’s scrutiny. He was suddenly as still as he had been restless the moment before, staring at the guardsman with a shameless intensity

It became unnerving in short order. Dwalin could have simply left – he had, after all, only stayed to make sure the little scamp wouldn’t do anything stupid, what with the show he had given earlier. But to walk away now, with that stare burning holes into his back; that would have been too much like running away. So he squatted down on his heels and started packing his pipe to give his hands something to do that didn’t look like fidgeting, and stared right back at the thief.

And he began to notice things: how the patch on the knee of his trousers had another patch sewn over it, the slightly darker stripes on his vest that suggested someone had once worn a weapon harness over it, the half-formed scabs on the knuckles of long-fingered hands.

How the little thief actually had quite a fine beard for one his age, more red than brown, and he had taken the time to weave it into a number of small braids instead of just one or two that was common for the poorer sort of workers. Dwalin found himself wondering if it was freckles or just grime dusting his cheeks, then frowned at himself and the thought, drawing a deep lungful of smoke and breathing it out in a cloud that hung between them for a moment, a hazy curtain obscuring the bars of the cell.

The thief met his gaze through the fading smoke and swallowed audibly. Then he spoke, the first time since they had brought him in.

‘Could you, perhaps,’ he said, ‘get me back my pipe and weed?’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because I’m asking nicely.’ The thief cocked his head and the corners of his eyes crinkled with what might have been an aborted smile. ‘Please? I only want a smoke.’

Dwalin stood up and watched him for a long moment. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But not your tinderbox.’

The thief flashed him a bright grin. ‘No matter; I’m happy to share a flame,’ he said, leaning ever so slightly forward. Dwalin felt a flush creep up his neck. So that was his game. But Dwalin had promised the scamp his pipe and pouch, and he was a dwarf of his word.

The thief’s pipe was not carved of one piece of wood, but rather put together of many pieces, with neat joins in between. Dwalin turned the thing in his hands and wondered if that had been stolen as well, but as clever as the pipe was, it was hardly worth much, and as far as he was concerned, the lad could very well keep it. There was nothing to be done for the tobacco pouch, however, but he had known that beforehand.

‘I could not get ahold of your pipeweed,’ he said as he handed over the pipe. ‘Most like someone misplaced it.’ After all, pettiness went further in some than in others, and guards were alike other people in that respect.

‘Misplaced it in their own pipe, you mean,’ the thief snorted.

‘I can spare a pipeful.’

‘Would you?’ And the smile was back, slower now, and lingering, and Dwalin knew he should have left well enough alone. The lad would play him like a fiddle if he let him. He tossed his own bag of weed at the thief in glum silence, and watched the other pack his pipe, humming merrily between his teeth.

‘Thank you.’ The thief’s fingers brushed his as he handed the pouch back, and he was close enough for Dwalin to see the sprinkling of freckles across his fine nose and sharp cheekbones. When Dwalin lit his pipe for him, the thief drew a slow, contended breath with his eyes closed, then let the smoke trickle in a narrow stream between his half-closed lips with a near-obscene sigh.

He could have him, Dwalin realized, he could have him without even having to ask. But it would be a trade, and no matter if he held up his end of the bargain or not, there would be no honour in it. Even so, some part of him was willing to consider it. Disgusted with himself, Dwalin turned on his heel and stalked off without another word.

He did not see the little thief again. By dawn, all that was left in the holding cell, behind the still-locked bars, was the faint scent of Dwalin’s preferred blend of pipeweed.


End file.
